


Clothes Make the Man

by draylon



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 12:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draylon/pseuds/draylon
Summary: ...or, in other words, where is he getting all those new outfits from?  A short Talion - Celebrimbor-centric snippet.





	Clothes Make the Man

 

Towards the back of the cave they uncovered a trove of Uruks’ plunder.  There was a brace of rough-bladed Orcish swords and daggers; some remains of mildewed cloth and rotting leather.  A mound of coin and tarnished artefacts, welded into rusting clumps by countless years exposed to humidity and damp. 

To one side of the stack something glinted yellow and pale green, drawing Celebrimbor’s attention.  On examining it the Elf made an exclamation of surprise and then called out abruptly.  “Look here!  Talion!”

Sunk into a shallow depression in the earth of the cave floor was another stash of treasure.   Whatever it was had at one point been carefully wrapped: first in a sheath of closely-woven fabric - decayed to fragments now - which had been placed inside an iron-bound wooden chest or coffer.   Of the outer layer of protection only blackened loops of the metal frame and a quantity of wood-shards and sawdust remained.

“Uncover it,” Celebrimbor urged, as Talion knelt down and swept aside the debris with his hands.  “Carefully!”

By the Ranger’s efforts, what was hidden in the coffer was quickly revealed: a longsword, a tall, leaf-shaped shield and laid out underneath, shining and resplendent, a full suit of Elvish armour. 

Whatever Elvish, or other arts had been used in the protection of these items had preserved them perfectly.  The sword was razor-sharp, and the golden alloy the rest of it was made from - lightweight, impervious, exquisite - shone as if it was newly-polished.  The lines were as fine and unmarked as if it had never seen a single day of battle and in spite of the dust and decay abounding in the dampness of the cave, the armour and other weaponry were clean and bright.  They remained whole and quite unsullied, still.

Talion stood, dusting off his hands.  “How did the Orcs come by this, I wonder?” he said.

Celebrimbor’s reply was dismissive.  “It matters not.”

His cold, pale eyes, always lacking so much in emotion if not expression, seemed almost to light up in their sockets, perhaps reflecting the green-and-gold splendour before them.  He leant closer and examined the store of weapons and armour, utterly rapt.   

“These are Dwarven runes,” Celebrimbor advised.  In his absorption the Wraith had stepped somewhat into the same space that was already being occupied by Talion, a careless, clumsy error that it was rare for the fastidious Elf to make.  He seemed not to notice his mistake however, being clearly occupied with other, loftier, thoughts.  

“When did you last look upon craftsmanship so fine as this?” the Elf murmured, then said, decisively - “you should exchange yours for it.  Every atom of this armour is imbued with the highest levels of protection.”

Talion shook his head, disconcerted.  “My old clothes still suit me well enough, I think.”  He was a straightforward, unsentimental man and yet  - and yet it grieved him, the thought of being parted from his old outfit. His Ranger’s uniform and armour were all he had left, representing the last, lingering thread that connected him to his old life: on the Black Gate with Dirhael, with Ioreth; to the person he’d been before Celebrimbor, and all of _this_.

“But it surpasses in every way your own!”

Talion turned from him, hugging his arms across his chest.  He wished he could find the right words to convey his meaning but the correct words, as in the spur of the moment they often did, evaded him.   “It is not only a question of quality.”

His companion’s voice took on a silken tone then, turning conciliatory.  “Talion.  Don’t pout.”  Talion glanced up sharply in surprise as the glowing outline of Celebrimbor’s hand, weightless of course, rested itself for a moment on his shoulder.  In spite of its apparent intimacy theirs had ever been a lonely association, from Talion’s viewpoint at least, as it was unheard of for the Elf to approach or engage with him in any gesture of comradeship or camaraderie.   Could their time together perhaps be slowly working to soften him?  Warm-heated Talion, who felt keenly for the Wraith’s burden and his plight, would have very much liked to think so.

He smiled, and said sincerely -“I’m not pouting.”

“Why not try it for size, then.”

With an almost apprehensive movement Talion traced his fingertips along one of the broad, overlapping panels of metalwork that criss-crossed the breast-plate of the suit of armour.  It was nothing less than Elven Smith-work of the highest possible quality: impeccably conceived and masterful in its execution.  Looking at it, he shook his head doubtfully.  “It’s too much.”  And then he added, brightening a little at the recollection, “I can’t help but wonder what Torvin would say if he were to see me wearing something like this.”

“Your Dwarven associate?” Celebrimbor replied, making barely any effort to conceal his obvious lack of interest.   His personality and Torvin’s had never really _gelled_ to any great extent, and this was unsurprising: where the Elf-Lord was superior, sly and duplicitous, the Dwarf was as frank as he was forthright, and coarse.  “And what _would_ have Torvin had to say?”

Talion’s reply was immediate, and completely lacking in self-consciousness.   “He’d say I was getting ideas above my station.”

With an effort the Elf-Wraith bit back the harsh words with which he might otherwise have answered his companion.  He was left impatient and frustrated by their most recent interaction because usually Talion was in the habit of deferring to him.  Albeit the point was moot: Celebrimbor’s options on the night the Black Hand summoned him had been very severely limited, but even he could acknowledge that whereas entering into partnership with a high-born nobleman, at the very least, would have far better suited his own personal sensibilities, such a character, instilled as he would inevitably be with the life-long habit of command, would almost certainly have proved much more difficult for Celebrimbor to direct, divert and control.

Weighed against whatever deficits of birth, or personality, that Celebrimbor might have counted among the humble Ranger’s shortcomings, he knew that Talion was above all other things, _biddable_.  

“With me by your side,” Celebrimbor told him, “such comparisons are meaningless to you, as they should be.”

Talion frowned.  “’By my side?’” he repeated, looking uncertain.

“I mean that we are linked with one another in partnership, of course,” the Wraith replied.  “I’ve raised you up, more than you could possibly know, and this -” he gestured with a sweep of his ghostly hand towards the Elvish armour, “now this unquestionably befits a person who finds himself in your… _heightened_ situation.”

He didn’t reply, but Celebrimbor could see the moment, clear to read in the Ranger’s handsome honest face, when Talion began the laborious process of reconsidering.  The Elf-Lord turned away at that, already growing weary of their conversation.  Now the cards he’d stacked would start to fall, and sooner or later Talion would find himself capitulating.   But their quest was waiting and they’d not a moment to waste!  Conscious of another, if minor, battle won, this time Celebrimbor didn’t trouble to keep the sardonic note out of his voice when he next spoke.

“Talion,” he told him, “you’ll need to think things over, and I realize that always takes time, for you.   But your people have a saying about these matters, don’t you?  So might I suggest you try and think about it at the same time as you _get yourself undressed_.”

Ever-acquiescent, the Ranger had already started unfastening the few remaining buttons of his ragged tunic.  “What _do_ they say?”

It could only have been the low light-levels in the cave that made the twist of the Elf-Lord’s lips look positively diabolic.  “They say that clothes,” he explained, “make the Man.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> One thing that's struck me, now that I'm finally getting my head round being able to begin playing 'Shadow of War', nearly a full year after the game and THAT ENDING were released, is that in it, Talion gets the opportunity to change his clothes an awful lot. I find this a bit disconcerting and strongly suspect that to start with, so did he.
> 
> And, not least, I'd like to offer many, many thanks to Sinick for positivty, comments and encouragement!


End file.
